


A Tale for Winter

by A S Lawrence (phoebesmum)



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen, Happy Ending, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-22
Updated: 2010-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-07 11:36:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/64798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoebesmum/pseuds/A%20S%20Lawrence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A sad tale's best for winter, but 'sad' need not always mean 'tragic'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Tale for Winter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [norah](https://archiveofourown.org/users/norah/gifts).



> Written for makesmewannadie (norah) for Yuletide, December 2008; prompt: _A fix-it story where Neil lives; a happy ending_.

The house is cold: bitter as his father's words, bleak as the ache in his own heart. That's his father's choice. Central heating systems, air conditioning, Neil's father despises them all. Decadent, he calls them, a cultural weakness, and so the family huddles in wintertime beneath layers of quilts and blankets and, in summer, swelters. Tonight, though, Neil welcomes it, welcomes the sting of icy air on the skin he slowly bares to the elements. He holds up his arms before his face, strokes one finger across the prickling gooseflesh, watches the stubble of dark hair rise and fall, rise and fall; turns his arm and holds his fingers lightly across his veins, feeling the pulse of his blood, of his life, stir rhythmically beneath their touch.

It seems so frail, so fragile a thing. As frail as his hopes for his future, as fragile as his foolish, doomed belief that he could escape the stranglehold in which his father holds him – holds the whole family, for Neil is under no illusions that his mother enjoys any more freedom than he himself does. One glance at her tonight when he'd got home, poor, crushed, voiceless thing huddling into her armchair as though she'd thought it would give her refuge, and he'd known that there would be no help for him from that quarter.

There will be no help for him from anyone, from anywhere. Who can he turn to? There's nobody. He's alone, as he always has been. His father won't hear reason; his mother can do nothing. He's trapped, doomed to tread the path his father has chosen for him: Braden (and if Welton is Hell-ton, then Braden will be, simply, Hell), then Harvard, then medical school. He'll be forced to leave his friends behind, to forget his hopes, his dreams; to live a life that is no life at all, but only an empty pretence …

_No life at all_, he thinks; _a tale told by an idiot, signifying nothing_. He raises his head, meeting his reflection's eyes, shadowed and hollowed and full of fearful secrets.

His hands are on the wreath now, Puck's crown of twigs and berries. He lifts it, and sets it on his head. It settles there lightly, comfortably, as though he were born to wear it. Crown of thorns, a martyr's crown.

This, then. His father has ruled him all his life. But there is one final place he can go where his father cannot follow.

The wind gusts through the open window, blows and cracks its cheeks, wraps itself around him like a winding sheet. He turns away and noiselessly slips down the stairs.

His father's study is forbidden domain; even Neil's mother has to knock and ask permission to dust. To Neil it's the scene of every scolding, every lecture, every beating since his childhood. His heart quickens now as he turns the key in the door, and as he takes the other, supposedly secret key from its hiding place all he can hear is his heartbeat swelling and pounding in his ears, roaring and surging like a breaker on the shore. His hands tremble; he fumbles at the desk drawer, drops the key and has to bend and scrabble for it. When his fingers close about it he kneels, as if in prayer, as if asking for forgiveness for what he is about to do.

He remains there, motionless, as the clock on the mantel ticks away the minutes toward the cold, grey winter morning. Only when it chimes does he stir, pull himself to his feet, take the key in his hand, open the desk drawer and reach for what lies within.

He pulls the cloth away to reveal the dull gleam of metal. Neil knows nothing of guns, has never even held one before. His father goes hunting with his work colleagues, but Neil is still deemed too immature to make up one of the party – not that he's ever minded that; the idea of killing for sport makes him physically sick. This, this souvenir from his father's war years, is smaller than he had expected, solid and stubby, surprisingly harmless-looking. Is it even loaded? Neil's not sure how you tell. But he knows one certain way to find out. He lifts it to his forehead, willing his hands not to shake …

There's a noise, sudden and startling, like harsh, inhuman laughter. Neil starts, spins toward the sound – _a fox_, he registers distantly, _only a fox, somewhere outside, barking_ – and the gun falls from his loosened hands. More noise then, only very much louder, and worse pain than he has ever before known burning through his leg and upward, convulsing his whole body, and the sound of someone screaming. And then for a long time afterward there is nothing, nothing at all: only silence and peace, which is all that Neil could have asked for. And somewhere, very far away, a whisper at the back of his mind: _Lord, what fools these mortals be!_

***

He wakens to that same still, calm, sense of peace: cool, crisp pillows beneath his cheek, walls tinged blue as daylight skies around him, the warmth of a hand gently clasping his own, a voice softly calling his name.

"Neil? Neil! Honey … it's time to wake up now. Neil?"

He resigns himself to consciousness, lets his eyes open fully and tries to focus on the source of the sound.

"Mom?"

Of course it's his mother. Who else would sit by his sickbed and wait for him to waken? And yet it takes him a moment to recognise her; something about her is different, although he couldn't explain what it is if you held a gun to his head …

(Why does that expression send a shiver through him, as though someone, somewhere, had stepped on his early grave?)

When he does recognise her, he's somehow surprised to see her here. Maybe because he isn't quite certain where 'here' is. He wants to ask, but his mouth and throat are dry. He swallows, and tries again.

"What – what happened?"

Her hand tightens on his, then releases. She stands, leans over him, cradling his head in her hands and gazing into his eyes. He doesn't know what she sees there. After a moment she manages a small, watery smile and releases him.

"We were hoping you might be able to tell us that," she tells him, and turns away, busying herself at the bedside table. When she turns back, it's to bring an invalid cup to his lips. Neil gulps down water gratefully, letting it slake the dry, bitter taste in his mouth and throat. He tries to lift his hands to take the cup from her, and is surprised to find himself too weak to move.

What _had_ happened? He can't remember. All he remembers is the play, the applause, the pride and triumph surging up inside him, the realisation that, after all the aimless, wasted years marching to the beat of his father's drum he had finally found his true calling, and then …

Oh, god. _Then_.

"Mom?" he asks again, his voice no more than a thread. "Is Dad here?"

His mother settles back down in her chair, smoothing out her skirt with the palm of her hand, a swift, untypically decisive gesture. For a moment she says nothing. Then, "No," she says. "No, Neil, as a matter of fact he isn't. In fact," she adds, and her eyes fix once more on Neil's own, "You really needn't worry about your father any more. Just focus on getting well, and, once you're back on your feet, we'll work things out from there. Can you do that?"

There are questions to be asked and answered here, so many questions, but Neil can't muster up the energy to wonder or care. Instead he only murmurs a drowsy "Okay," and allows himself to slip back down into a deep and dreamless sleep.

The last thing he's aware of is the warmth of his mother's hand as she once again reaches out for his.

***

As he wakes and sleeps and wakes again over the next few days, Neil gradually puts together the pieces of the puzzle his life has become. The unknown room is a hospital ward. A bullet has torn through his right calf, ripping away meat and gristle and shattering bone. That leg is encased in a cast now, and supported by a Heath Robinson device of slings and pulleys. The reason everything seems floaty and dreamlike is that his bloodstream is pretty much awash with morphine (it's kind of pleasant, actually, and he becomes quite resistant when his doctor decrees that the dosage needs to be reduced). His mother seems to be there with him no matter when he wakes, and somehow anticipates his every need: she brings him books and magazines, a radio, hothouse grapes and Graham crackers and, best of all, a selection of the local newspapers with their reviews of the _Dream_, all of them praising his depiction of Puck to the skies. "I wish I could have been there," she tells him, pressing his hand – she seems to be unable to stop touching him these days, as if to constantly reassure herself he's real. "I would have loved to have seen you." She bites her lip for a moment, then pastes on a smile. "Next time, I'll come to every performance. I promise you that!"

_Next time?_

There's still no sign of Neil's father. He doesn't visit, he doesn't write and, after that first time, Neil's mother never mentions him, and Neil is afraid to ask.

He doesn't lack for visitors in spite of his father's absence. Mr Nolan makes a sudden alarming appearance at his bedside one day, and lingers for an excruciating half-hour during which the headmaster hems and haws and mumbles and Neil can think of not a single thing to say in return. Far more welcome are his school friends, the Dead Poets Society and all the rest of them, who arrive in orderly groups of three – the nurses will allow no more at any one time, no matter how sweetly Charlie Dalton tries to charm them – and whose reactions range from the ghoulish (Pitts: "Was there a lot of blood?") to the tearful (Todd. Of course, that had to be Todd). Most welcome of all is Mr Keating, for something has been gnawing away at Neil's conscience, and this is his chance to set it to rest.

"I'm sorry I lied to you," he blurts out, almost before Keating's passed through the door.

Keating stops in his tracks, eyebrows raised. "Apology accepted," he says, and settles into the bedside chair, then lifts himself up a fraction, reaches into his pocket, and gingerly proffers a slightly squashed chocolate bar. "I must admit," he continues, settling back down, "I did wonder. From what you'd said of your father, he didn't seem the sort of man to change his mind so easily. And, Neil, something to remember next time you need to tell a lie – try to look the other man in the eye." He sighs. "I should have stopped you then, I guess, but I thought – well, one thing I did believe was that your father was out of town. I didn't think there'd be any harm in letting you have one night of triumph. Every dog must have his day, and every man's entitled to at least one night – don't you think? H'm?"

Neil smiles and nods, and then draws back as Keating looms forward, his face suddenly very serious.

"What I do want to know, Neil, is this. Have you, in all the time I've been teaching you, listened to a single word I've said?"

"Yes!" Neil tells him, "Of course I – "

But Keating doesn't let him finish. "_Carpe diem_, Neil. Seize the day. When did I ever say anything about throwing it away? Those faces I showed you – food for worms, I said. Don't you think they would give everything, _everything_, to have back just one day of life? How could you, how _dare_ you take the one great gift that you have and let it go to waste?"

There's so much anguish in the older man's eyes that Neil can find no defence. Instead he only whispers again, "I'm sorry," and then, as the thought strikes him, "How did you know?"

"What you tried to do?" Keating's lips curve in a small, humourless smile. "I'm not an idiot, Neil. I was seventeen once myself, you know. And I had a father, too." Then he grins. "How'd you think I ended up in London?!"

"Does anyone else know?" The answer seems desperately important somehow. He's not sure how he could face the other boys now, not if they knew of his moment of terrible weakness.

"Know?" Keating shakes his head. "Nobody _knows_. I wasn't sure myself until just this moment. I imagine they suspect, but … if you don't tell, I won't. Just promise me this: no matter what happens, no matter how bad things may seem – don't ever let it come to that again. Nothing's worth dying for, Neil – no woman, no leader, no ideal, no disappointment. _Golden lads and girls all must as chimney-sweepers come to dust_ – but it'll happen soon enough. Don't bring that day forward by so much as a second. I beg you."

"I won't," Neil whispers, and he means it. He remembers now: remembers fumbling with the key, kneeling by his father's desk and praying for someone to help him find another way, knowing that he's not ready yet to say goodbye to everything, to all his hopes, his dreams, to all the future might hold; remembers holding the gun and gazing down at it, knowing that he lacks the courage either to follow through or to turn back …

"Oh," Keating adds suddenly, pausing as he reaches the door, "By the way, Neil. Be good to your mother. You don't know yet how much you owe her." And, before Neil can ask what he means, he's gone.

He doesn't understand fully until weeks later, when he's finally deemed ready for release. By that time the absence of his father has become normality; he no longer questions it, and simply basks in the unaccustomed relief. His mother, though – his mother has been there every day for him, no longer grey and timid and silent as she has been for so many years but warm, loving, supportive, and – at first Neil thinks he must have imagined this, but as they leave the hospital he sees the glances people cast their way and he knows it's true – somehow growing younger and prettier every day.

He understands when, instead of sweeping up the drive to the house he has known all his life, their taxi pulls up beside a modest split-level apartment in a part of town that Neil's never set foot in before this day. His mother comes around to help him out of the car, while the driver lugs Neil's bag up to the front porch and leaves without waiting for a tip.

His mother opens the door on a narrow hallway. Here and there are a few things Neil remembers – a painting, a lamp – but, for the most part, the walls are bare, and the carpet's faded and shabby. But there are vases on every surface, all of them filled with flowers, and the rooms are open to the chilly sunlight. Neil breathes in deeply. Yes: he can breathe. This is a home; not a prison.

When he's settled on the couch, his mother draws up a chair. She leans toward him, taking his hands in hers, holding his gaze, her eyes solemn. "You must have guessed by now, Neil. I've left your father. Forever."

He feels suddenly dizzy. He closes his eyes and lets his head drop forward. Through the buzzing in his ears, he can hear her voice as she continues, " – and you're staying with me. I've stood a lot over the years, but when I saw you lying on the floor, bleeding half to death … that was the end. I told him then and there, before I could change my mind, and I'm sticking to it." She reaches out her hands to him. "I know I haven't been a very good mother – I should have stood up to him long ago, I should never have let him bully you the way he did, but I was frightened too – but all that's going to change. It'll be just the two of us now. It won't be easy – it won't be what you're used to …"

Neil clutches her hands tighter, clasps them to him. "Mom – "

"You're my only child," she says, quietly. "You mean everything to me, Neil. I know what you were intending to do, and if you'd succeeded then you might as well have killed me too. I won't ever let things get that bad again. And nor must you. You hear me?"

"I hear you," Neil says, and he pulls her down into a clumsy embrace. "I love you, Mom. Thank you for this. Thank you for _everything_."

He feels her tears wet against the skin of his neck; then she pulls away. "Oh, by the way," she says, trying to sound casual, "I have something for you." She passes him a sheet of paper.

It's a flyer for a local theatre group. He flattens it with the back of his hand, reads the smudged print:

_All the world's a stage_, it tells him, _and all the men and women merely players_. True enough, that; old Will knew what he was talking about. As for him, Neil: the stage is his world and now – now – he's finally free to take command of it.

"Auditions are next week," she tells him. "I already phoned and told them you'd be there."

***

Time passes. School days are over in the blink of an eye, college quicker yet. Then there's hard work and hunger, failure and frustration until at last the day comes when it's all rewarded, when Thespis smiles and the casting director nods approval.

They're all there on the big night – everyone who's helped him reach this moment; his mother, of course, chic and soigné in her pure wool suit and pillbox hat, her second husband's arm tucked into hers; his friends with their own successes under their belts – Pitts and Meeks, post-graduate at MIT, Knox Overstreet who's left his father's firm to work for the Civil Rights Commission, Charlie who'd dropped out of college to play sax in a nightclub and then, after all, decided that the world needed more doctors than jazz musicians and Todd, of course, Todd the published author, the Dead Poets Society's greatest success story … greatest, that is, until now. John Keating's there too, along with Neil's drama coach, and a dozen or more others, family, friends and mentors. Only one seat remains empty, gaping like a hollow tooth in a million-dollar smile. Neil notes it without surprise and without disappointment. He has long since ceased to hope for reconciliation.

A bell sounds the five-minute warning. He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, and awaits his cue.

_The actors are come hither! _

***

Outside the theatre a lone figure stands studying the front-of-house portraits. The evening's mild for the time of year, but he wraps his coat about himself, and he shivers. A hand goes to his pocket, touches the ticket tucked away there, and then withdraws, empty.

Tom Perry takes one long, final look at his son's bright, smiling face, then turns away into the dark of the winter's night.

***


End file.
